


The Boxer

by libraryv



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Boxing, Case Fic, Eventual Romance, F/M, Pining, Post-Lethal White
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2020-04-07 23:23:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19095118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: Strike goes undercover to investigate a boxing club for underprivileged boys, and the tension is amplified by the partnership between him and Robin.





	1. Sucker Punch

**Author's Note:**

> _Sucker Punch: unexpected punch that catches a boxer by surprise._
> 
> Content warning here for some mild punching and hitting, in the context of a boxing match between two willing participants.

Robin looked out the windows at the pouring rain: not usually one to run indoors, she had been unable to face the torrent this evening. She was glad for the convenience of the gym on miserable night like tonight, and happy to meet up with Daisy.

She passed a room with whirring exercise bikes, another one with a children’s karate class, and another open door where a quick glance gave her an outline of a small boxing ring deep in the half-lit room.

She stopped, and walked back a few paces.

The boxing ring. There, slowly circling another man, was the unmistakeable figure of her senior partner. 

He was covered in sweat, his t-shirt sticking damply to his torso, darkened in front and back. Even from this distance, she could sense his focus, that intensity she was so familiar with. It was narrowed entirely on the other man.

His shoulders were hunched, his stance wide, his large body radiating latent power. You wouldn’t know he was wearing a prosthetic leg, thought Robin, glancing down at his sweatpants, the deliberate placement of his feet. His balance was rock solid.

The other man’s glove shot out low, startling Robin, but Strike must have seen it coming; he dodged it easily, answering with his own hit, connecting with a soft whump.

“Watch your left, Tim,” said another man, standing on the floor. 

Tim swung again, fast and aiming high, and Robin saw now that Strike’s prosthetic cost him: it took him a split-second too long to adjust his weight onto his good leg. Tim’s glove caught Strike in the temple, and his head swung to the side, sweat flying to the mat.

Robin didn’t even have time to wince before Strike was pummeling back like a leash had snapped; the nature of the fight changing from hesitant to full swing. 

She could barely keep up with the traded blows, could barely stop herself from gasping out loud and interrupting their concentration. Tim’s face was screwed up in anguish, but Strike’s expression was unchanged; nothing but intense focus. Watching him was almost like watching slow-motion – his movements were both calculated and lethal. 

Tim was tiring, he was backing up, leaning on the ropes as Strike threw punch after effective punch to Tim’s torso. He paused for a moment, then landed a heavy uppercut to Tim’s jaw. Tim went to his knees, and the match was over.

Robin breathed out. She watched as Strike took off his gloves and shook hands with Tim, who was already up on his feet.

She backed out of the doorway, heading up the stairs to the cardio room. She was already running late to meet Daisy.

 

XXXXX

 

“I’ve just got to go the loo, I’ll catch you downstairs.” Daisy waved her forwards, and Robin nodded, tightening her ponytail.

She headed downstairs, her thoughts already on the shower at home and the dinner with Daisy.

“Miss!” She turned and saw an employee running down the stairs, her water bottle in his hand. “You forgot this!”

“Oh, thanks!” Robin took the bottle with a smile and began walking down the hallway again. 

She turned around, giving the employee a last wave, and smacked into the broad chest of Strike. She took a quick step back, stumbling slightly.

“Oops – okay?” Strike had shot out a large, taped hand to steady her.

Robin looked up at him. Sweat was forming droplets that were running down his temples. His dark hair was shining wetly, curling at the front. He smiled at her, one side of his mouth red, the skin at his left temple raised and puffy, swelling around the corner of his eye.

Robin struggled to say something.

“I – didn’t know you came here.”

"It's new. Part of the mysterious detective persona that I’m cultivating." He was grinning fiercely; he had a loose, relaxed energy. 

They stared at each other, and Strike, who never did anything without purpose, swept his blue-green eyes slowly and deliberately down her body. 

Heat bloomed in Robin that had nothing to do with her run.

Strike took a swig from the water bottle he was holding, and the moment was broken. He pushed a hand into his sweaty hair, and Robin saw that the handwrap around his knuckles was stained with blood.

“I’d better get back. We’ve got another round.”

“Right. Er-see you tomorrow, at the office?”

He nodded, had already turned around with a casual wave, was already making his way back. Daisy appeared at her elbow. 

“Wow - was that Cormoran?”

“Yep.”

“He’s looking fit.”

The two women watched as Strike’s large frame limped down the end of the hall.

Robin turned to see Daisy giving her a sly look.

“What?”

“How long again, since you two broke up?”

Robin groaned. “Don’t start, Daize.” 

“I’m just saying, there was obviously a _moment,_ there, that I almost interrupted-“

Robin let out a laugh. 

“Your run must have gone to your head. That was over a year ago. Come on, let’s go get some dinner, and I’m dying for a shower.”

She put an arm around Daisy, and they left the gym, but not before Robin turned around one last time to see Strike duck his head as he disappeared through the doorframe of the boxing room.


	2. Mandatory Eight Count

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Mandatory Eight Count, also known as a Compulsory Eight Count: Time given to a boxer after they have been knocked down, giving them a chance to recover and stand up before resuming the fight._

Robin could hear feminine laughter and the faint whine of an electric razor from behind the closed door of Strike’s office.

She stared at the computer screen, willing herself to concentrate on the article she had pulled up.

**“Guildford Boxing Gym Gives Local Youth a Fighting Chance.”**

The buzzing noise stopped, and high-pitched giggling mixed with Strike’s deep register.

Robin ground her teeth and re-read the first line.

_“Head coach Rhys Gifford is enthusiastic about offering a different option to young men in the gang-heavy neighbourhood of Guildford Heights-“_

There was the unmistakeable rumble of Strike’s chuckle, followed by a soft, delighted squeal.

_You broke his heart; let him be happy._

She tucked her hair behind her ear, forcing her brain to absorb the words in front of her.

_“Head coach Rhys Gifford is enthusiastic about offering-“_

Ominous, affectionate silence from the office.

_“Head coach Rhys Gifford-“_

Robin stood up and marched loudly to the kitchen, grabbing the kettle and rattling it as she fairly stomped to the hall. 

“Can I interest anyone in some tea?” she called, and winced at the forced cheerfulness in her voice. 

“Cormoran? Amanda? Tea?”

The office door opened, and there was pert and pretty Amanda, her shining blonde hair slightly mussed out of its ponytail. Her hand was attached to Strike’s, who allowed himself to be pulled into the corridor. 

“Oh my god!” Robin took a step back. 

“Isn’t it good? He looks so different!” Amanda beamed.

They had brainstormed it beforehand: Strike’s unruly hair had been completely shaved, leaving him with a dark buzz cut over his skull. His eyes appeared larger, darker, and the patchwork of bruises that were a near-constant part of his features these days stood out starkly. He was missing his usual button down and black trousers; Robin didn’t think she had ever seen him wear a pair of jeans before.

His transformation changed the slightly shambled air of professionalism he normally carried; he looked both younger and more dangerous. It didn’t hurt that his recent months of hard work at the gym had him noticeably leaner, and she certainly couldn’t help but see the muscle definition showing in his arms, sticking out from his t-shirt.

He gave Robin a slightly sheepish grin. 

“My turn for the disguise tricks. Do I look like an assistant boxing coach?”

Robin nodded, getting over her astonishment at his shorn head.

An unbidden, sunlit memory: Cormoran’s warm mouth on her collarbone, rasping her with his stubble, her fingers thoroughly tangled in his soft strands of hair, gasping out her desire as he smiled into her skin.

She blinked, collecting herself, and turned to Amanda.

“Great job; it’s lucky you’re a hairdresser!”

Amanda reached up and brushed her palm over Strike’s scalp. 

“I think it looks sexy – very no-nonsense. And he should go casual more often.” 

She curled her hand around his neck, trying to bring him down for a kiss, but Strike looked at the kettle in Robin’s hand. 

“I could make some tea? We have time for a bit of game-plan discussion, before I go to the club to meet Rhys and the boys.”

Amanda tugged on him again, and started to lead him back into the office. 

“Robin was making it, weren’t you, Robin?” 

They disappeared through the door, and Robin was left alone, gripping the handle of the kettle. Instead of making tea, she went to her desk, collapsing back onto her chair.

She pulled out her mobile phone and called Daisy.

“Rob! What’s up? Aren’t you starting that boxing club case today?”

“Yeah, in a bit. Listen, Daize.” Robin stopped, her throat thick.

“I think I made a mistake.” 

“With – the case?”

“No, with – with Cormoran!” Robin sighed. “Amanda’s at the office today.”

There was a beat of silence before Daisy answered, her voice gentle.

“Rob. You knocked him flat to the ground when you ended it. You can’t blame him for needing to lick his wounds and recover.”

“I know! I know.”

Another pause.

“Are you going to be okay?”

Robin slumped forward and idly rolled a pencil between her fingers. 

“I will be after a bottle of wine with dinner tonight.”

“You got it. Chin up. What do they say in boxing? Get back in that ring.”

Robin laughed. 

“Right. Thanks, Daize. See you tonight.”

“See you tonight.”

Robin hung up, Strike's sheepish grin and muscled arms fixed firmly in her mind.

_You broke his heart; let him be happy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> His hair! I'm breaking all the rules with this one. However, Strike's hair is quite a defining characteristic of his, and these two are supposed to be decent detectives, after all. :D


	3. The Ringer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin witnesses Strike in action and they share a moment after the fight; she does a bit of undercover work herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ringer: an imposter, not who they say they are; a boxer who lies about their previous experience or knowledge to gain advantage in a fight._

The teenage boys at the Guildford Boxing Club were being recruited, heavily, into gangs – and assistant coach Sean was the main suspect.

The head coach, Rhys, had hired Robin and Strike to investigate. As Robin and the club receptionist walked down the hall, she reflected that it would be good to finally play an active role in a case that she had only heard about, so far, via Strike’s intel. 

He had spent the past month gathering information on Sean, on the club, and the boys, and doing a thorough, careful job. 

Today, though; today was up to her.

“They’re in here – should be just about finished.” The receptionist gestured towards the double doors in front of them. Robin could hear teenage voices rise in a sudden shout of surprise, followed by cursing and laughing.

She cracked open the door and snuck in, not wanting to attract attention. 

Two smaller boxing mats in each corner were abandoned; a group of ten or so youths stood gathered around the raised centre ring, cheering on the two figures within it. 

The head coach, Rhys, spotted her. He raised his hand in silent greeting from the stool he was sitting on. She waved back and leaned against the wall, eyes draw towards the middle of the floor.

Robin had not seen Strike in the ring since catching him at the gym months ago. The nature of his work on this case meant he was often here, she was working on another with Barclay; she had not seen Strike in action. 

Until now.

Strike was fighting with Sean, the other assistant coach and their current target. Robin didn’t know much about boxing, but she thought he and Strike looked evenly matched, at least in terms of size.  
It was like watching a lion; all that upper body power held in check beneath a lethal, almost lazy, calm. She could see the muscle shifting, coiled, underneath his T-shirt. Suddenly, Strike’s massive arm came up and dealt Sean a heavy cross punch. Strike bounced backwards almost immediately; but not fast enough – Sean caught him in a counterpunch straight to his face. Robin’s hands flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp as Cormoran’s head snapped back.

The audience of teen boys groaned. 

Robin got the feeling they were hoping for Strike. Interesting. What did that say about Sean?

Strike retaliated with a powerful right cross; the lion was awake. His body was turned slightly away; Robin remembered him saying that the best aim came from the side. He connected again with Sean’s torso; landing sharp combination jabs into his ribs. Robin wrapped her own arms around herself in unconscious sympathy for the other man. Sean lost his footing, his gloves came down.

He threw a desperate punch, catching Strike in the mouth again; Robin could see the blood well up from where she stood. 

Robin could feel Strike’s patience in the way he boxed; could sense his consideration behind every move. She guessed he would go for another right cross; he had told her recently that it was his favourite. It allowed him to throw his weight onto his good foot, allowed him to make his power count when his balance was off.

She was right: she saw him shift his weight slightly awkwardly, the first sign of any weakness she could tell. His fist came across his body and hit Sean’s jaw, enough to have him stumble backwards, almost comically fast but still upright, into the ropes. Strike dogged his steps, landing another solid hit to the other side of Sean’s face, followed by a brutal uppercut. 

Sean was definitely leaning back into the ropes now, his knees sagging. Strike threw one last clean jab, the sound ringing throughout the suddenly silent gym, before Rhys jumped up from his stool.

“Third round goes to Coach Connor!”

The gathered teens roared their noisy approval, and Robin’s arms came unclenched from her sides. 

Strike cricked his neck to one side, then the other, rolling his shoulders, as the boys stampeded up into the ring, crowding around him to pepper him with eager questions. Sean stood up slowly, shook Strike’s hand, and walked to the showers. He didn’t seem to want to stick around to talk to his students.

Robin walked forward to the ring, slowly, not wanting to interrupt the boys’ steady stream of enthusiastic queries. Strike looked up in Robin’s direction and caught her eye, giving her a wink and a jack-o-lantern grin around his mouth guard as he stripped off his gloves.

Somebody had given Strike a water bottle, and he took a gulp before swishing it into his mouth and spitting it back out onto the mat, blood-flecked. The boys cheered. 

“Right. Showers!” called Rhys, and there was a small stampede of long limbs and shouting to the change rooms. The gym was quiet again; the only sound came from Rhys as he walked around the far perimeters, collecting forgotten towels and equipment, making his slow way around the corner to the hallway of offices.

“That was quite something,” Robin said as she came up to Strike, leaning on the top ropes. It was an understatement. 

He took out his mouth guard, the look on his face a bit smug.

“Wouldn’t look good if I spent the past month here with nothing to show for it.”

It happened so naturally, without either of them speaking, an echo of their old synchronicity: Strike held out his hand, she lifted her foot and stepped up onto the edge of the ring. He hoisted her up like it was nothing, the sheer amount of strength he had built pulling her weight effortlessly up, and suddenly she was standing on the other side of the ropes, their bodies inches apart. 

They were face to face; Robin could see the sweat beading across his nose, the jaw that was already swollen, the week-old green bruise over his right eye.

“I haven’t gone up against Sean before, but the practice was almost over and the boys wanted to see their assistant coaches face off. They’ve been after us for weeks.”

He gave a sudden grin, the jewel-bright blood around his teeth taking her by surprise, and her foot slipped. There was a stomach-dropping split-second, her body suspended in air, careening backwards, before Strike’s strong arm came out of seemingly nowhere, catching her through the ropes and firmly around her waist.

“I’ve got you.” 

They were squished together against the ropes, the silent gym cavernous around them. Strike’s chest was a wall of solid, reassuring warmth, his arm keeping her secure.  
Robin gave a weak laugh, her heart pounding, still getting over the feeling of the sudden drop.

Strike hadn’t unwrapped his other arm from around her; neither of them acknowledged the fact that he continued to keep them close. He kept his arm lightly around her as she ducked in between the ropes and joined him inside the ring.

“Thanks for keeping me from falling flat, there.”

“Don’t mention it. Better reflexes, these days.” He gave her another blood-filled smile. She winced.

“Do you know that your mouth is –?”

“Yeah,” he said, amused. “It’s common, for that kind of hit. It’ll stop in a minute.” He rubbed his lower jaw, then jutted it out, moving it back and forth, testing. “Hmmmm - I might feel that in the morning.”

She snorted. “Quite possibly.” 

He laughed, then turned and grabbed a towel, rubbing it over his head and face before throwing it over his shoulders.

Only she could know him well enough to catch the slight tremor of his hands, the slight crease of pain between his eyebrows. He began unwrapping his hands, and Robin saw his knuckles were swollen and red, covered in spidery bleeding.

“Cormoran, oh my god!”

He looked slightly contrite. 

“It’s my fault, I forgot - didn’t use enough padding in the wrap at the beginning of the week and they’ve been raw. Would you mind handing me that-?”

He gestured to an ice pack standing on a stool next to them, along with a bucket and some aloe vera. He finished unwrapping his hands, and Robin saw his fingers shake as the final strip of bandage came away. She was used to seeing him, over the past few weeks, walk into the office bruised and moving about stiffly, but it was rather different to see it when the pain was fresh.

He reached for the ice pack, but Robin squeezed some aloe vera into her hand and held out her palm. 

“Give me that hand.” 

He placed his large hand in hers, and she began to tentatively rub the cool gel across the angry knuckles. Strike gave a minute flinch, then closed his eyes in relief, surrendering to the touch and letting his head drop forward. 

“Fucking Christ, that’s good.” 

Robin grabbed the ice pack off the stool with her other hand and lifted it slowly to his jaw, still rubbing his knuckles with the other.

He opened his eyes as her fingers made contact with his face, his voice low and quiet.

“Thanks, Ellacott.”

She was suddenly filled with complete and utter longing; she had to glance down at their hands in order to avoid saying something stupid. She looked back up, undone by the look of unguarded tenderness in his eyes.

Strike’s eyes traveled over her shoulder. 

“Sean,” he mouthed silently. 

This was it. The reason she was here. 

She had to get into Sean’s office, and more importantly, get into his personal life – and his flat.

“Ready?” Strike’s eyes were still on her.

Robin turned, took in Sean’s scowling expression as he slouched towards them, and rotated back to Strike.

“Couldn’t have let him win, could you?” 

Strike grinned. “Good luck.”

Strike ducked and maneuvered himself through the ropes and to the floor, heading for the benches along the wall, and Robin’s attention shifted as Sean approached the ring and leaned beside her.

“Hello there. And who is this angel visiting our boxing club?”

_“He has a major thing for strawberry blondes and married women. I think I can get him primed, and you can come in and be the final key in this.”_

Strike’s words were echoing in her ears as she gave Sean her best smile, pushing thoughts of Strike out of her head and bringing all her concentration to the task at hand.

Robin extended her hand out to Sean.

“Hi, I’m Rebecca. My husband must have mentioned me.”

“Yeah, he did.” He jerked his head towards Strike, who appeared to be slowly gathering up a towel and water bottle, but Robin could tell by his body language that he was listening to her and Sean. 

“Connor’s a good coach. Natural. We’re lucky to get him.” He ran his gaze down her body, then smiled at her. 

“Do you box as well?”

Robin laughed, pressing her hand lightly on his arm. 

“God, no. I was always more into team sports. Volleyball, that sort of thing.” Among the many things Strike had told her, a predilection for women’s volleyball shorts was among Sean’s interests. 

She saw the moment her casual comment worked: he leaned towards her a bit. 

“Really? Good for you. We could play a drop-in round at my local gym, maybe.” 

Robin hoped to high hell that never happened; she couldn’t serve to save her life.

“That sounds fun,” she smiled, then put her hand on his arm again. “You know, my husband will never give me a tour of this place. Would you mind?”

He looked delighted; Robin felt smug. Hook, line, and sinker. 

“Sure; I can show you my office. Where the magic happens.” He gave her a lewd wink. She’d have to play this carefully.

“Great! Just one moment; I’ll meet you there.” She walked over to join Strike at the far side, where he was pretending to look at a poster on the wall.

“Sean’s going to give me a tour of the gym, take me behind the scenes a little, to his office.” 

Strike raised his eyebrows, grinning.

“Bloody good work! He doesn’t let anyone in there, and that took you about a minute.” 

The grin changed into a different kind of smile as there was knocking on the gym door window. “Fuck. What is she doing here? I told her to meet me outside, she’s early,” he said between his teeth.

Robin knew without looking that it was Amanda. Strike sighed.

“I’d better go take care of this; she’ll blow our cover. Let me know what you find in the office.”

Robin smiled. 

“How do you know I’ll find anything?”

He grinned at her again. “Because it’s you.” He shuffled away and walked heavily over to the doors where Amanda was standing, and herded her away with a last encouraging glance over his shoulder at Robin. 

She turned around, and began walking through the empty space to the back hallway with the offices. Time to press her advantage.


	4. The Challenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin fills Strike in with some case details over breakfast, and their old connection comes to the surface at a night at Nick and Ilsa's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Challenger: A boxer who is up against the current champion._

The café door bell chimed and Robin looked up to see Strike heading towards their table. A surge of fondness rose up; he was dressed in his old trousers and a blue collared shirt. His heavy coat hung a bit looser on his frame as he came towards her and sat down with an awkward thump and a grimace.

He shook off his coat, muttering a string of expletives. Anything that required upper-body movement after a day of boxing had him slightly grumpy.

Robin grinned.

“Getting old?”

The words were out of her mouth before she had thought about it. 

“I didn’t mean -“ her sentence died off, painfully.

Strike shook his head slightly, then mercifully said,

“How did you make out with Sean last night?”

She seized on the subject with relief.

“He showed me around the gym, mostly talked about himself. We went into his office but he wasn’t keen on me being in there. Not sure if that means it has to be revisited, or if he just wants his privacy…and it’s not like I could dig through his desk with him standing over me, breathing down my neck.”

“Is he breathing down your neck too closely? If he’s being too-“

“I can handle him.” Robin gave him a reassuring lift of her chin.

Strike smiled, held his palms up.

“I know you can. I’m just letting you know I can always use some extra sparring practice.”

Robin drummed her fingers absently on the table, thinking.

“You said Sean is pretty distant with the boys, as a coach.”

“Yeah, he’s either flawlessly professional, not that keen on his job, or something’s not fitting. The key is his life outside the club.”

“He’s taking me out to dinner in two nights, and I’m hoping to charm him enough for him to let something slip.”

“The man has no chance.”

This last comment hung in the air with Cormoran’s teasing smile, before he cleared his expression and looked at the menu again, Robin studying him.

He looked rough: his right eye shadowed with bruising, his jaw was still quite swollen and purple underneath the layer of stubble. She supposed it hurt to shave. He was sitting in the café chair at an angle, his torso, she knew, covered in sore and stiff spots, causing him to shift positions.

He looked fit as hell.

A need to speak, to address a topic they hadn’t for over a year, rose up in her, undeniable.

“Cormoran.”

He looked up.

“You were never too old for me.”

He sighed.

“Robin.”

“You’re in the prime of your life, and right now you look it.”

A bark of laughter as he gestured vaguely to his face, grinning.

“No, I mean – you look a bit of a mess right now, but-“ 

She huffed in frustration, wanting, needing, to explain.

“Sorry. This _conversation_ is a bit of a mess, obviously. I just, lately,-“

Robin had his full attention, his eyes on hers, menu forgotten on the table. She couldn’t be sure if those eyes were urging her to continue, to break the tenuous agreement they had to never revisit this territory. 

“All decided?” The waitress had appeared, pen and pad in hand, and Strike gave her a last searching look before nodding, and Robin knew the moment, if there ever had been one, had passed.

XXXXX

 

“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me Robin would be here tonight! She’s always around, always hovering!” hissed Amanda, violently twisting the bottle opener on a beer.

The lid went flying; Strike caught it easily. 

“Amanda. We work together and we have the same friends, and I did tell you.”

“Yeah, right before we left!”

Strike sighed; he knew there was no way to win this one. The conversation was a variation of the same one they’d been having, daily, for weeks. He pinched the butterfly bandage on the bridge of his nose; it was currently covering a nasty cut from the afternoon’s sparring.

She had a point, he conceded to himself. The energy between him and Robin lately had felt…dangerous. 

In a way that had him glad he was boxing again, giving release to emotions he couldn’t name.

This is not what he said, however. He wasn’t stupid.

“Does it matter? I’m here with you.”

She looked at him, pleading, and Strike felt a sinking feeling, felt a flash of premonition as Amanda opened her mouth-

“I love you, Cormoran.”

_Shit._

“Shit! Ouch, sorry-“

They looked over at the corner of the kitchen, where Robin stood, rubbing her elbow. 

She backed away, hands in front of her. “I’m so sorry, I had just come in for a drink, ran into the doorframe-“

She swallowed, and Strike ducked his head, hiding a smile at her Yorkshire accent, coming through loud and clear in her embarrassment. Amanda glared at him, and stormed out of the kitchen.

“I am so sorry!” whispered Robin, with an anguished expression.

“Don’t worry about it – you saved me from a fight, just then. I should thank you.” 

They shared a beat of awkward silence.

“Amanda is – she’s really-“

“Always really fucking angry with me, is what she is,” finished Strike, with a sigh. 

There was a split second of silence, then Robin let out a burst of laughter. 

“I’m so sorry – I don’t know why I’m laughing – I’m an awful person!”

Strike grinned, leaning against the counter.

“That makes two of us. I’m not feeling all that sorry, myself.” 

Robin’s laughter died out, and she took a grateful sip of his beer that he was holding out to her. 

She blushed, looking down at the floor.

“I really am sorry, Cormoran. I honestly didn’t hear more than-“

“Robin.” He was shaking his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, feeling the various bruises underneath the stubble.

She took another gulp and put the bottle back on the counter between them, and it was Cormoran’s turn as he slugged back a healthy swallow.

“I’d better go find Amanda.” The idea did not excite him.

She grinned. “Good thing you’ve got that drink.”

“Somebody drank half, I need another.”

He nodded teasingly to her and made his way out the kitchen, back into the living room, uncomfortably aware, in a way that he hadn’t been for months, that the woman he really wanted was the one he was leaving behind in the kitchen.

 

XXXXX

 

“Now, who wants to try and beat our record?” said Nick, as the timer buzzed and the group laughed, and he and Ilsa gave each other a high-five.

“Oh, I’ll play a turn, but I need a partner!” Robin clapped her hands together and Strike fought against a surge of fondness; Robin had always been game to try anything, to play along.

“Daize?” She turned to her friend, pleading.

Daisy groaned. “I suck at this one, Rob. I’m sitting it out.”

Robin turned to Strike and Amanda.

Amanda shook her head, her hand snaking into Strike’s. “We’re not into party games.” She gave Robin a condescending smile, which irritated him much more than her blanket statement.

_Bad idea. Don’t do it. Don’t-_

He looked into Robin’s playful blue-grey gaze.

_Fuck it._

He shook his hand out of Amanda’s grip and leaned forward. 

“Yeah, I’m in, Ellacott.”

“Yes! Okay, Ils, Cormoran and I are going to show you how it’s done.”

Strike felt Amanda’s waves of disapproval; he didn’t care. He knew it was not wise to be pairing up with his old girlfriend in front of his current one. He also knew his reasoning had never been strong when it came to Robin.

He got up and settled across from her on the couch, and she turned towards him, her knee almost against his. He felt himself tip over into surrender, felt himself return to a corner of his heart he hadn’t visited in a year.

_Fuck._

He gave Robin a wide smile as Ilsa flipped the timer over, felt his heart give a treacherous leap at her answering one. He pulled the first card from the deck.

“One on the wall across from us, what the crocodile swallowed in Peter-” 

“A clock!” exclaimed Robin, and Strike nodded, reaching for the next card.

“Hoards treasure, breathes-“

“Dragon!”

“Not a coffee man, I much prefer-“

“Tea!”

The others groaned. 

“My god,” said Nick. “The two of you. I remember now why we don’t allow you on the same team.”

Robin laughed, shaking her head, already listening to Strike as he read the card and started speaking again.

“On the case, you’re bloody good at it-“ 

“You have got to be kidding me,” muttered Ilsa, as Robin shouted, “undercover!” 

The evening was nudging Strike back in time; he had forgotten what it felt like to be around Robin outside of work, was surprised at how easily their old level of comfort, their shorthand, came back into play.

He was flipping the game cards and barely looking at them, Robin’s eyes not leaving his. They were grinning at each other madly. He could feel her picking up on his energy, feel that old connection of theirs surging forward, could not help but give into it, just once more, just for right now.

“Colosseum, when in-“

“Rome!”

“Too much salt tonight in the-“

“Curry!” 

“Salt-n’-vinegar-“

“Crisps!”

Their knees were definitely touching now, and the point of contact was like a live wire, sending repeat shocks to the base of his spine, over and over.

“End of the world, feels like certain, it’s my favourite-“

“Doom!”

The plastic timer sounded, and the group burst out laughing and clapping. Strike grinned as Robin leaned forward, laughing, her hand giving his arm a quick squeeze; then felt it fade a little as he saw Ilsa’s expression: sympathetic, and full of understanding. 

Amanda’s was one of stone-cold fury.


	5. Spar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A heatwave outside forces a heated conversation (and other things) between Strike and Robin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Spar: A fight used for training and preparation in the gym. It should be much less intense than an actual match, but retain the basic elements of a fight._

“I’m just saying, we need it, and we can afford it.”

Robin stared him down. 

Strike fully agreed with her. Hell, he had agreed with her as soon as she first mentioned it. Nobody could be expected to stand this oppressive heat. It had come out of nowhere, in the middle of April, and it felt like high summer.

But watching Robin get worked up was an indulgence that he couldn’t deny himself. Her cheeks turned pink. Her grey eyes turned stormy with emotion. So, Strike sat back in his chair and merely lifted one eyebrow in silent query.

Robin shook her head at him, and his reticence was awarded with the exasperated smile she reserved solely for him.

“You _know_ we can afford it.”

She smiled more widely, and the already-unbearable level of heat was nothing to the warmth that spread in his chest at the sight of it.

“And I know you’ve already made up your mind to buy one, so the question is, why am I even wasting my breath? I suppose you find it amusing that I’m arguing with a wall.”

Robin grinned and flopped back down in her chair, gesturing limply at the ancient fan rotating silently on the desk. 

“I’ll replace it tomorrow. It’s too hot to do anything today.”

Strike simply nodded, watching her. It was too hot. He opened his mouth to thank her for volunteering, to maybe ask if she wanted company on such a small errand, but she beat him to it, teasing,

“You always did rather like it when I worked myself into a bit of a froth.”

It was an unexpected statement: they both tried to operate in a universe where they did not acknowledge their past relationship.

She closed her eyes and tilted her head, and Strike watched the line of her neck grow longer as her head went back; watched a bead of sweat run from the underside of her jaw, leaving a glistening trail on her neck. His fingers twitched. He needed a cigarette.

He cleared his throat.

“You’re right, it’s too bloody hot to do anything today, and we’re nearly finished.”

He leaned forward, one large hand searching the pocket of his shirt. 

“Fancy a pint?”

Robin gave him a sharp look.

“Don’t you usually meet Amanda for dinner on Fridays?”

Strike looked up; made sure he was looking right at her.

“She ended it.”

Robin looked hastily at her computer. 

“Oh. Sorry.”

“I’m not. We were limping along anyways. Pun intended.”

Robin’s lips pursed; she was fighting a smile.

She lost. 

He grinned.

“Come on, stop staring at that screen and let’s go for a pint.”

This time her face betrayed a face full of regret. 

“I can’t – I – I have a date.”

“Oh.”

A few moments ago his mood had matched the relentless sunshine beaming in through the windows; now it plummeted darkly. 

He hauled himself to his feet and checked his watch. It was early. More than enough time to go to the gym and put in a sparring session. Then Waitrose and grab a TV dinner. The thought was not appealing.

“I’m – sorry, Cormoran.”

He tried to pull his features into nonchalance, but he knew he was failing. 

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not – it’s – where are you going?”

“To the gym.”

“I thought you said it was too hot to do anything.”

Robin’s teasing voice rankled, and the heat was oppressive. The tension in the room became even greater. Where, where had his fags got to?

He walked past her into his office, ignoring the feeling of her eyes on his back. He pulled open a drawer at random, knowing that the cigarettes weren’t in it but giving vent to his feelings. He pulled out a T-shirt and began unbuttoning the one he had on. 

Robin had followed him into the office, but saw that he was shirtless and made to turn away. Not before she received an eyeful of a physique that was new to her; his upper body was lean, powerful muscle, and a calico patchwork of bruises coloured his chest and ribs. 

He looked up, catching her hovering in the doorway, and she covered up her embarrassment with a reproving comment.

“I’m allowed to have a date, Cormoran.”

He pulled open another drawer with rather more violence than necessary. 

“You’re allowed to do whatever you want, you don’t need my bloody permission.”

“I just feel like there’s been this tension between us lately, and-“

“Leave it,” said Strike, in a warning tone, but he knew her, and knew she wouldn’t.

“You know I’m right. Ever since you began this case there’s been this, this energy-“

“I definitely need a smoke.” Strike gave her a bit of a smile, but there was a current running through him, a feeling of teetering on the brink.

Strike spotted his cigarettes on top of the filing cabinet behind her, and walked over, reaching up. Robin didn’t move.

She could feel the warmth coming off his bare skin; see the dark hair on his strong chest curling slightly with sweat. Up close, the boxing bruises were large, and she could see a purple one on his ribs expand and shrink as he took a breath in and out. He was looking down at her; and she was hit with an onslaught of physical want: she wanted to take this powerful body of his for a test drive.  
His expression flickered, and he walked away, back towards the window. A flick of the lighter, a slow drag, the nicotine a quick release into his bloodstream. Robin watching him. He scratched the side of his nose. 

“A large part of why it wasn’t working with Amanda was because I’m not over you.”

He blew smoke towards the window as Robin looked to the side. He could see that his straightforward admission had startled her.

“I don’t really know what you-“

Strike shook his head at her.

“You’re too smart to play confused, Rob. You heard me. I’m not over you.” 

He put out his cigarette in the ashtray and walked right up to her, his eyes intense. Robin shook her head.

“I have to go meet my date.”

Strike shrugged, a little smile playing on his mouth. 

“So go meet him.”

Robin saw the next few moments in her mind: she would turn around, grab her purse, walk down the stairs and out of the overly-hot office. 

What she did, was put out a tentative hand to Strike’s bare chest. He gave a quick inhale at her touch, and then his mouth was on hers, hungry and familiar, and her fingers were all over him, responding without thinking. 

There were no declarations, and absolutely no hesitation: they had both been here before, and they knew each other well. He broke off the kiss long enough to gasp,

“Up there, get up there,”  
And she didn’t know what he meant, she had been too thrilled with his tongue in her mouth, kissing her half to death, too preoccupied with the strangeness of running her fingers over his shorn, buzzed-cut scalp and feeling him moan somewhere in his chest, but then he had lifted her up, one arm had come up behind her and god, he had gotten _strong_ , and she felt a delighted, girlish swoop as she felt herself swung up and set back down on the edge of his desk.

It felt right, and he felt good, no, he felt _amazing _, and there was a sense of letting go, of not caring, that they hadn’t shared before. His arm was still around her, supporting her and working the clasp on her bra at the same time, they were going fast and hot and desperate and her hair was sticking to her neck with sweat and all she wanted was for him to-__

__He bent his head and was kissing her breasts, his tongue skilled even as she felt her bra loosen and give; she opened her legs and brought him in closer, and he had her bent backwards, that strong arm not wavering as his mouth kissed down the lines of sweat on her chest and found a nipple, and _yes_ ,Robin closed her eyes and bucked her hips against him shamelessly; their broken history didn’t matter, their messy past wasn’t a part of this, she just wanted him, fuck, please, just-_ _

__Strike froze._ _

__They both heard it, and it came again; a brisk knock on the office door, this time, accompanied by a voice._ _

__“Strike, it’s Rhys. I’ve got some new info on Sean for you! I need you to hear it.”_ _

__Strike straightened up, still supporting Robin and taking her with him, then stepping away as soon as she was upright. They were both breathing hard; Robin’s blouse half-off, her bra had slipped, undone, her straps hanging across her upper arms. They looked at each other, and everything came flooding back. Their history. Unacknowledged hurts. Her date._ _

__“Strike!” Another pounding on the door._ _

__“Right! I’ll be there in a second!” shouted Strike, who reached for his abandoned T-shirt and pulled it roughly over his head before he stared at Robin, then turned and walked out of his office._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy break between chapters, Batman! It took me forever to figure out the middle bit of this story, and I was sinking in the quagmire. I originally had this as a later chapter, but I rearranged and sorted, and now it should come together more easily. 
> 
> Thanks to blue_robin, without whom this chapter might never have seen the light of day, and under_my_blue_umbrella, for some steady and reassuring support. AND to everyone out there who has read and commented so far! :D I love Boxer Strike, and I love that you love him, too. :)


	6. Blow-by-Blow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike and Robin's shared moment the evening previously forces a confrontation of their feelings. There be angst ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Blow-by-Blow: A detailed description used by broadcasters to describe the fight and the course of action as it unfolds._

Strike began his warm-up, pacing around the punching bag, feeling out his weight. After all these years, his prosthetic still tripped him up, and he felt it all the more keenly when boxing. He was fitter than he had been in a long time, but he was still getting used to fighting with uneven balance. He threw another long shot, then followed it up quickly with a series of one-two punches, mentally recalibrating his stance each time, his brain taking notes.

The gym was empty except for Sean: his office door was shut, and Strike could occasionally hear the low murmuring voice being raised to a higher decibel.

Another series of quick jabs, and the heavy weighted bag let out a cloud of dust. Strike walked around it, breathing heavily, flexing his taped fingers. The moment with Robin the night previously was weighing on his mind.

He hit the bag again, testing out the different angle, keeping his power leashed for now. 

The doors opened and Robin came in: she was meeting with Sean. Rhys had recorded Sean on his phone, urging the boys at the boxing club to meet him in his office. Something was going on, and Robin was going to try and charm some more information out of the assistant coach.

Strike didn’t break his stance; he started putting more power behind his hits, began moving in and out of range of the bag. His footwork needed to be stronger. 

Robin made her way over to him, and Strike continued, punctuating his jabs with careful, measured, shortened breaths.

She was in his eyeline, and he saw her shake her head.

“Do you have to kill that bag right this second, or can you take a moment?”

Strike tried to focus his eyes on the bag and his breathing, and not on the fact that her t-shirt was distractingly low-cut. His memory supplied him with the image of his tongue laving along a trail of sweat at the top of her breasts; he let loose a series of sharp hooks into the bag.

“Can’t right now,” he breathed.

She crossed her arms, but one of the many things he loved, (no, liked, he corrected himself) about Robin was that she could read a situation.

“Okay,” she said, and he let out a grunt of relief along with an uppercut. The _whap_ of the bag echoed around the gym.

“So I’ll talk,” Robin continued, raising an eyebrow.

“That kiss last night-“ she began, and he experienced another flash: how good it had felt to kiss her, her tongue meeting his, her curves under his hands. 

“I was thinking about it all through my date, which I ended early. Cormoran, I think – I think maybe I – maybe we need to look at our relationship again.”

A surge of emotion went through him at her words; emotions he didn’t feel like sorting through. Another uppercut to the bag, and his breathing gained speed along with his jabs. He ran his hand across his mouth, wiping the sweat away.

He moved back in range, practicing a pivot on his bad leg. It failed; he stumbled and caught himself, and it fueled his already-short temper.

“The relationship you ended,” he said sharply, aware even as the words left his mouth that he sounded accusatory.

Robin uncrossed her arms. 

“It takes two people to make a relationship work, and you can’t deny you were pulling away.”

He began to speed up his punches; the bag was at his mercy for a quick series of blows for fifteen seconds, then he stepped back.

“I’m a fucking decade older than you,” he stated, spitting onto the ground.

Robin gave a bitter laugh. 

“I _know_. I knew that all along! How many times, Cormoran? It doesn’t matter! It never did!”

He stepped forward; the bag received a brutal pummeling. Another break, and he looked at her, sweat stinging his eyes. 

“You say that, but it does. You have an entire future ahead of you, and I wasn’t going to be the one who took that away.”

“You don’t get to decide that!” There were tears in her eyes, and he longed, suddenly, to take her into his arms, to comfort her. To be the one who made it better. Instead, he unleashed his rapidly rising temper into the bag again.

He finished, shaking his head.

“I couldn’t be the one to ruin your life; to break your heart.”

A tear ran down Robin’s cheek, and she hastily brushed it away. 

“You _did_ , though. You did; you withdrew and put up a wall and didn’t care. And you refused to talk about it! You just refused to meet me halfway, and I got tired of it.” She stepped forward, her eyes full of pain.

“I may have been the one to say the words, Cormoran, but you bloody well _know_ that you ended it long before I did.”

She dashed her hand across her face again and sniffed. 

He finally stopped, taking a deep breath; both his energy and frustration had waned. Her tears were killing him.

“Robin.” 

She shook her head at him.

He looked at her, raising a taped hand out to her. She took it, and he gave her a wry smile. 

“I’m sorry.”

He licked the sweat off his lips. Took another breath.

“I just – I just never let myself believe it, you know?” He gestured down his body.

“Some broken-nosed, one-legged, fat bastard who has a good ten years on you. Why would you want me?”

“Because I loved you!”

Strike noted her use of the past tense; filed it away and nodded.

“I was protecting you.” 

Robbin looked to the side, her emotions already back under a veneer of professional calm.

“Yeah. Well. You thought wrong.” She shrugged. 

"We can't keep having the same conversation."

There was a beat; Strike debated going farther, telling her that he-

Sean’s office door opened, and he stepped out, smiling at Robin, who had already pasted a beam of welcome onto her own features.

Strike turned away. The moment had passed; he would work it out of his system with another round at the bag.


	7. Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike and Robin share a temporary ceasefire and a meaningful moment that could push them forward in their feelings. They also make a breakthrough on the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Break: A command used by a boxing referee to stop the action and separate the fighters._

“It was odd; Sean kept saying he was ‘onto something'.” 

Robin was idly looking at the chocolate bars lining the shelf in front of her, waiting as Strike searched for a bag of crisps to go with his cigarettes.

They had reached a silent agreement not to bring up their charged conversation; they were politely avoiding the electric fence of emotion that was currently between them. 

“He’s hiding something,” said Robin, picking up a Double Decker bar and putting it down again. 

“Or he’s telling the truth.” Strike had a bag of Cheese and Onion in one hand and a bag of Salt & Vinegar in the other. He was holding them both up with a questioning look, when they heard a youthful voice exclaim,

“Coach Connor!”

A tall, rangy teenage boy had come around the corner, a grin lighting up his acne-spotted face. 

He held out his fist for Strike to bump as Robin watched with amusement. Strike indicated her.

“Chris, this is my wife, Rebecca.”

Chris’ eyes traveled up and down her body appreciatively, in a way that strongly reminded Robin of her teen years.

“All right?” said Chris, smiling. “You’re a lucky man, coach,” he said, giving Robin a wink. 

Robin grinned, and Strike failed to hide a smile behind a clearing of his throat. He held out the crisp bags, but Chris shook his head. 

“Nah, coach, I gotta eat healthy to stay in shape. We’ve got the match for the fundraising gala!” 

He shrugged. “I came here to get some of those.” 

He pointed at the cigarettes behind the counter and sauntered over to it with a wave goodbye.

Robin sighed, shaking her head. Strike went and paid for his cigarettes, and they both left the store, walking along the busy street. 

It was a beautiful evening, and the sun was setting. They strolled quietly along, and Robin looked over at Strike’s profile.

“I know that look. What are you thinking about?”

He pulled something from his pocket, still looking straight ahead, and took her hand. 

Robin ignored the familiar thrill at his touch, and focused instead on the item he placed in her palm. A Double Decker bar. 

She looked up at him and laughed, and he grinned in that sudden way he had, and for a brief, twilight moment, their past was no longer between them. 

The warm evening was washing over them, and Robin’s fingers closed over both the plastic wrapper of the chocolate bar and the lingering fingers of his hand. They stopped, facing each other in the street as people hurried past them. 

“Robin.”

The golden evening lit his face; weathered, freckled, serious. The green eyes were earnest, the fine lines deepening in the corners as he squinted down at her.

“You’re right.”

She didn’t ask him what he was referring to, and she didn’t need to: Strike was not one for detailed, verbose explanations. He looked away and up at the busy evening scene before them, taking a second, then back at her. 

“You know I'm not the best at this – I’m trying to say - it was never love that was the issue. I got in my own bloody way.”

Tears were threatening; her throat was thick with her own heartache. She couldn’t speak, so she nodded. He nodded, too. 

Their hands were still clasped.

He let go, and they continued walking down the street. 

“Did you see what Chris used to pay for his cigarettes?”

Grateful for distraction, Robin thought back, hitting upon a realization. She looked at Strike, saw the familiar smile on his face, and picked up on his train of thought, saying,

“What kind of teenager, who belongs to a charity-run boxing club for boys from a poor neighbourhood, uses a 50 pound note to pay for cigarettes?”

Strike dug into his pocket for his new purchase and tapped one out of its box, thinking. 

“One who’s been given money, or one who’s done a quick job to earn it.”

Robin thought back to her conversation with the assistant coach.

“You think this is a real connection to Sean?”

Strike nodded. 

“And I think we finally know at least one of the boys he’s targeting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh. They had to finally unearth a clue/make some headway in both the case and their feelings. A quieter chapter, because the next ones aren't!  
> Also: the age for buying cigarettes in the UK is over 18+, so I'm thinking that Chris is an older teen, in terms of the boxing club boys.


	8. Pull Your Punches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike and Robin head out together for Gala Night at the boxing club. Strike makes a discovery about the case, and comes to a realization about his feelings, but time isn't on his side as he prepares for the big match of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Pull Your Punches: When a punch is not delivered at full force, but held back. Fighters sparring each other may pull their punches to keep the intensity light. Some fighters may do it in a competitive match to trick their opponent into a feeling of safety before they surprise them by throwing with full power._

The cab moved through the night in silence.

Strike and Robin had shared many car rides, many kilometres, many travel-tinged memories, over the years. Night, day, in and out of London. Jokes, comfortable silence, life moments both good and bad. One particular cab ride flashed in Strike’s memory, from their first week as a couple; a burning, passionate session in the backseat, his hands roving over previously forbidden skin, Robin’s hot pants of desire in his ear. They had barely stayed dressed; Strike had actually flung the notes at the driver in his haste, before they tumbled into his flat, laughing and hungry and consumed with each other.

That was another lifetime, and the images were tinged with the rosy-coloured hue of innocence. That was before he had begun the long and unforgiving process of relationship self-sabotage.

Strike looked over at Robin’s profile, wondering, the history of all those front-and-backseat moments stacking up, building a wall between them.

His gaze traveled farther; brushed along the pale skin of her collarbone, took in the swell of creamy skin at the top of her low-cut evening gown. He clenched his hand subtly on the seat; memory walked a fine line between kind and cruel.

She looked over and smiled, as if she knew what he was thinking. He shifted in his seat and loosened his tie. The car was stifling. 

“Ready for tonight?”

Robin’s smile was enigmatic, and Strike didn’t know if she was referring to their plan to catch out Sean, the big match tonight between himself and head coach Rhys, or the fact that the two of them seemed to be racing headfirst into their own past. 

He looked directly at her. Apologies and half-hearted confessions lay thick in his throat, and he swallowed around them. Instead of speaking, he nodded.

Robin leaned towards him, and he met her halfway. He wanted her, body and soul, with a ferocity that should have surprised him, but instead felt inevitable. 

Her eyes sought his, and he saw the infinite possibility reflected in them. For a wild moment, he thought she was going to kiss him.

“You’re not nervous, are you? About facing Rhys for the match?”

He smiled, careful to let nonchalance coat it.

“He should be nervous about facing me.”

Robin laughed; one short, appreciative snort, and he reveled in the sound of it. He put his large hand over hers. She didn’t move it away.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the short journey to the gym. The cab pulled up outside, joining a long queue of cars and people in formal wear milling about the entrance. Boys from the club stood at the doors, greeting people for the event. 

Strike exchanged a last look with Robin. They would be separated as soon as they were inside; he had to go glad-hand the various donors and make the rounds before the match, and she had to try and cozy up to Sean and press for some answers. 

Robin removed her hand from his and slid along the seat, reaching forward and handing the company credit card to the driver. Strike grabbed his kit bag from the floor of the cab and maneuvered himself awkwardly out of the car. 

 

XXXXX

 

Strike moved through the crowded gymnasium, exchanging smiles with his students and shaking hands with the guests. The gala was in full swing; the boys had done a pretty good job of decorating the place; the giant banner proclaiming “Give Us Your Money - We Need New Equipment” was drawing more than a few laughs from amused parents.

A hand came down heavily on his shoulder; he turned to find Rhys beaming at him, shaking loose a cigarette and leading them both to a set of doors that opened to the parking lot. He offered the box to Strike, who accepted. They stood, blowing smoke into the cold air.

“Great turnout, right?”

“Yeah.” Strike looked around at the packed gym. 

“Listen.” Rhys leaned closer, and Strike got a good waft of whiskey. 

“Have you and your partner found anything on Sean yet? You’ve been at it for awhile.”

Strike sought out and located the back of Robin’s bright head. She was talking to Sean. 

“No. But we’re close to something.”

Rhys slapped his hand on the front of Strike’s suit jacket. 

“Good. I don't trust him.”

Strike considered, not for the first time, something that had bothered him from the beginning of this case. 

“Why don’t you just fire him? If you think he’s buying these boys for a gang? So what if you can’t prove it? Fire him anyways.” 

Rhys gave a smooth laugh, but it came a split second too late; Strike had seen the flicker of guilt. 

Rhys covered it well, still laughing. 

“I’d like the proof.” He gestured at his watch.

“Guess I have time for a few more pleas for money before I get out of this get-up. See you in the ring. Rumour has it that the money’s on you, my friend.” He flashed Strike a practiced smile. 

“But I am the coach, after all. So it’s maybe not a smart bet.”

He shook Strike’s hand, then made his way into the crowd. Strike put out his cigarette immediately, and strode forward, looking for Robin. He saw her at the bar, she was already heading in his direction. They met up, and both of them spoke at the same time. 

“It’s Rhys.”

“I have something to tell you about Sean.”

Strike grinned, then ran a hand over his shorn head. Robin’s mouth fell open, then shut. They tried again.

“It’s _Rhys?_ How-?”

“What about Sean?”

One of the boys from the club, Lawrence, stood at the podium under the banner, tapping the mike. The music that was throbbing out of the speakers stopped, and the murmuring crowd turned their attention towards the teenager, whose voice broke nervously into the hushed audience.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Guildford Boxing Club Charity Gala! In twenty minutes, our head coach Rhys will face off with our new assistant coach Connor. If you haven’t already done so, please place your bets on the winner. Our betting table is located against the far left wall, and remember, this is all above board. All proceeds go towards badly needed new equipment.”

There was applause, and an ear-splitting screech as Lawrence turned the mike off. The music thudded back into existence. Strike looked down at Robin.

“I have to get ready for the match. Rhys isn’t going anywhere.”

Robin nodded; there was time for an explanation later. Her mouth was set in a firm line.

“Cormoran.”

His heart was beating fast; the old, familiar thrill of getting to the bottom of a case, of sorting through the clues and making sense of it all. The older, anticipatory adrenaline of a boxing match, the high of a clean fight.

There was more to it, though, and it was down to the woman standing in front of him. 

The words were right there.

_Tell her that you love her. That you never stopped._

_Tell her you miss her._

_Tell her that you fucked it up but if she gives you another chance, you’ll spend the rest of your life making it up to her._

She smiled, and gave him a light punch on the shoulder.

“Show Rhys how it’s done.”


	9. Southpaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike faces off with Rhys for the boxing club Gala match, and there are a few surprises in store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Southpaw stance: Left-handed boxers are usually taught to fight in a southpaw stance, but right-handed fighters can also fight in the southpaw stance for many reasons. Fighting in a southpaw stance is believed to give the fighter a strategic advantage because of the tactical and cognitive difficulties of coping with a fighter who moves in a mirror-reverse of the norm._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> A note about the content: this chapter is mainly the fight. I've read (and watched) a lot of boxing stuff, way more than I ever would have, in order to sound slightly authentic, but I should apologize for any inaccuracies. Also, so far, I have purposefully told all the boxing scenes in this fic from an outside point of view, because I wanted this match to be told from Cormoran's. I thought the main fight would be fun to see, finally, from his own perspective.

Strike would not have guessed that a hundred-odd parents and hormonal kids could produce such a roar, but as he moved himself heavily through the ropes onto the mat, the cheering audience was a tidal wave of sound, washing over him. 

Rhys was pacing on the other side of the ring. They were fairly evenly matched; Rhys was shorter, but not by much. Half a year previous to this Strike would have been in a different weight class, but that had changed; he felt leaner and more powerful now. Hard muscle was revealed as he stripped off his T-shirt and handed it to Chris, who was standing in the corner as his second. 

He took his mouth guard from Chris’ shaking hand, and he had to lean in to hear the teenager’s nervous, “Go get him, coach.” Strike gave him an encouraging wink, and bumped the proffered fist with his glove.

The gym was dark, but the lights were bright and hot directly above the ring; the sea of faces beyond it melting into a blur of colour. Swaths of open mouths, hands slapping together; a current of pure excitement moved through the crowd. He caught a sleek flame of strawberry blonde hair, and his determination flared. A hush fell, and Strike bit down on his guard; familiar adrenaline was spiking through him. This may be just an amateur match for a teenage boys’ boxing club, but it was a match nonetheless. 

Strike flexed his fingers in his gloves, testing the tape. He turned his head side to side and pivoted, letting his weight settle fully onto bad leg before swinging it back. He and Rhys were both fighting in sweatpants; he had opted out of the shorts. Strike loathed pity, and had no desire for the shocked sounds he would hear from the audience when they realized he was fighting on a prosthetic limb. He shook out his arms, rolling his shoulders. He felt good. 

A coach from another district’s club had volunteered to referee, and Strike gave him a formal nod as the man motioned both him and Rhys forward. The two fighters gripped hands, and Strike looked into Rhys’ eyes. 

The bell rang. The crowd began to shout again, and Strike gave his entire focus to the man across from him. 

Rhys was bouncing on the balls of his feet as they paced around each other; Strike could afford no such luxury. He had barely finished the thought before Rhys threw a left-handed jab, followed quickly by a right cross. 

Exactly as he would have predicted, and Strike dodged it easily, and threw a cross punch that Rhys had no problem blocking. This was normal, and both men circled, pawing a bit, testing the waters. 

Within seconds, it settled into a serious fight. Rhys wasn’t the head coach without reason, and he didn’t waste time. He was a stick-and-move* fighter: energy and movement and punch after punch, and Strike found himself completely occupied with just blocking and avoiding him. 

Rhys was quick, too quick. Strike was struggling to keep up with him; he _couldn't_ keep up with him; he was realizing that his own compromised balance and slow pivoting was more of a hindrance than he had planned.

All it took was a split-second falter on his bad leg for Rhys to land the first real blow; Strike saw it coming but wasn’t fast enough. A sharp jab pounded into the left side of his temple, and pain blazed up, stinging and hot.

He wasn’t as fast as Rhys, but he had more power, and he whipped his head back and returned with a strong counter punch.

They traded blows; Strike was absorbing hits to his face, ribs, and torso as steadily as he could while offering the odd heavier punch in return. He was playing Rhys, tiring him out. Reeling him in like a fish on a hook. 

Nothing but a physical chess match.

He was giving ground, backing up slowly as Rhys continued his relentless assault. Rhys looked triumphant, but he was tiring. Right where Strike wanted him. 

His adrenaline was leaving him; his forearms were starting to sag and his defensive posture was falling apart. He was feeling each hit more and more, explosions of pain right traveling through him to the base of his spine.

The bell rang again; the three minute round was over. Rhys stepped back, and both men were breathing hard. Strike could feel the sweat running through the bristled hair on his scalp. 

Strike stumbled slightly over to the ropes, taking off his right glove and removing his mouthpiece, the swish of cold water in his mouth a godsend. Chris’ worried stream of commentary was a dull murmur in his hot ears as he crossed his arms on the ropes and leaned his forehead gently onto them. 

Fucking _hell_.

It had been a long while since he’d been in a proper match with a proper opponent, and pain was blooming brightly all over his upper body. His head throbbed. His prosthetic felt tight and insubstantial beneath him. He had thought himself mentally prepared for this, but the reality of getting beat up as a middle aged, one-legged fighter was a far cry from getting beat up as a whole one in his twenties.

He felt somebody climb up to the other side of the ropes, then cool, gentle fingers on his hand. Fingers he knew with his eyes closed. He lifted his head, and she was there, as he knew she would be.

Robin’s eyes were large as she gave his hand a squeeze. 

“All right, Ellacott?” he said softly, squeezing back. 

She smiled, her eyes soft with worry, and his heart was a painful thump in his chest. She stroked the tape on his hands.

“I don’t know much about boxing, but it looked like you were getting bloody pummeled up here.”

“I was.”

He grinned, and took another grateful swig of water and spat into the bucket before looking at her again. The crowd was a dull blur; the excited faces a moving, dizzying background to Robin’s; clear and bright and focused on him.

She gave him a wry look.

“You’ve got a plan. I know you.”

He was soaked; sweat was running down the sides of his face. His body was shining with it under the glare of the lights, and one of the hits to his face had been to his mouth; he’d been tasting copper in the back of his throat when he swallowed.

His hand tightened around hers. 

“I do have a plan.”

The second round was going to start, and his time was up. 

He gave Robin’s hand a gentle tug, pulling her just close enough to stay careful of her dress. She was beautiful, and he was a mess. He saw her take a breath, and her lips were trembling, but she was smiling at him, and his whole world was right here, in this moment. He kissed her. 

Her mouth opened to his, willing and familiar and sweet, and he gave it a few good, thorough seconds, before drawing reluctantly back. 

He took a small step away from the ropes, and in an echo of a moment from years ago, he flipped her hand and gave the back of it a quick press of his lips. She grinned, her eyes full and glittering, and gave him a nod.

He let go of her hand, trying to ignore how it felt like letting go of a lifeline. He turned, putting his guard back in and moving to the centre of the ring, getting into position opposite Rhys.

Rhys was glaring and ready; his face smug.

_All right, you bastard._

Strike gave him a sudden, disarming grin, and deliberately shifted his position, placing his bad right leg forward. Southpaw stance.

Rhys’ expression had changed into a comical mask of surprise, but what really wiped the superiority from it was the left-cross right hook that Strike gave him, bursting right across the nose.

This round would be different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! That took a long time, and I really, really hope it was worth it. I wanted to keep it interesting, but it was so hard to describe the fight without sounding repetitive. 
> 
> I sincerely hope it isn't boring! One more chapter to go, in which there is a lot less punching, and a lot more Strike-and-Robin. :D Thank you all so, so much for reading. I love this fic, and I love Boxer! Strike. 
> 
> *stick-and-move fighter: when a boxer jabs or uses long range punches then quickly steps backwards using elusive footwork to evade their opponent. Something Rhys can easily do, something Strike can't.
> 
> Shout-outs to Lula and under_my_blue_umbrella for letting me think out loud and bounce rambles off of them.


	10. Knockout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the boxing match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Knockout: the end of a match, usually awarded when one participant falls to the canvas and is unable to rise to their feet within a specified period of time, typically because of exhaustion, pain, disorientation, or unconsciousness._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to those who have stuck with me. I did NOT see this taking this long to write. Despite a clear outline and knowing how I wanted to end things, I really struggled writing this one. I apologize for the crazy long gaps between updates!
> 
> Just a note before I wrap things up (and this chapter seemed more fitting to mention this than the next/last one): before I started this fic, I wanted to make sure that Strike boxing as an amputee was actually feasible. I looked it up, and there were so many cases of one-legged boxers that I was ashamed of myself for even doubting it. It's really inspiring, and super cool: there are hundreds of award-winning, one-legged boxers out there. A few even hold world titles! And they all fight against two-legged opponents. Anyways. Just a cool thing that I thought I'd mention. :D

Rhys’ head whipped to the side, and he stumbled, shaking his head slightly. Strike gained on him, closing the space again. He knew how that hit must have felt. 

It had been a warning blow; Rhys recovered just enough to look at Strike with a touch of confusion before Strike let him have it again. Harder.

This time, the leather of his glove smacked into Rhys’ jaw with staggering power, and Strike could feel the other man’s skin rippling loosely across the bone. Rhys tripped backwards, his chin snapping up from the strength of the blow.

Rhys took a few moments, his head hanging to the side, his jaw slack, and Strike watched with satisfaction. Then the head coach swung back so fast that Strike couldn’t move fast enough, and felt Rhys’ glove skate heavily into the bridge of his nose. Strike felt the skin split, felt the searing, accompanying throb of his sinuses as he blew out a breath. 

No time, he looked back at Rhys with swimming vision, and the fight turned nasty. Both of them sped up, their gloves slipping slightly on sweat-soaked skin. Strike could feel every sock and slug reverberating deep in his spine; he could only hope that each jab was hurting Rhys just as much. 

_Tire him out._

Strike bit into his mouthguard, bent his head slightly and threw a powerful hook. Then he let loose a volley of strong jabs into Rhys’ torso, holding nothing back. Over the sudden, swelling roar of the crowd, he could hear the sounds Rhys was making as each punch landed, taking away air and leaving no mercy. 

Strike was relaxing with each hit. He had always been a power fighter. Some things, it turned out, didn’t change after all.

He was in his element now. The match was turning, Rhys was tiring, and Strike let his gloves fly; he let Rhys get a taste of what exactly he was capable of. 

Rhys’ whole torso was heaving, and Strike stopped his assault. Rhys leaned forward, bending low and placing his gloves on Strike’s shoulders, clinching.* Strike took the opportunity; they were both struggling for breath.

“Didn’t see that - southpaw - coming,” Rhys slurred around his guard.

“No shit,” gasped Strike with a bit of smugness, blinking the pouring sweat from his eyes. 

Rhys managed a breath, wincing as his sides expanded.

“May have - underestimated you.”

He let go and swung, but it was wild, and Strike dodged it easily.

“Probably.”

Rhys’ sharp eyes were slightly dazed. Strike felt a flash of hatred for him. The head coach had lied to this community, and manipulated these young boys who were a part of it; twisting their paths into a violent future.

Strike looked into Rhys’ eyes and spoke as clearly and simply as he could.

“I know it’s you. Not Sean. _You_.”

Rhys’s eyes widened with fear, confirming Strike’s suspicions. Then he pulled back, and came towards Strike with a last, desperate overhand punch. 

Strike feinted, and Rhys fell for it, stumbling forward. Sensing victory, Strike crouched slightly, and threw all of his weight behind a decisive, vicious uppercut.

Rhys’s body twisted with the impact and dropped, crumpling to the mat, and the noise of the crowd shifted upwards in a sudden burst of thunder. Strike barely heard it; there was only a relentless thudding in his ears as he kept count in his head. 

_One, two, three…_

Rhys lifted his neck, then braced his forehead on the mat. 

_Six, seven, eight…_

He was struggling to lift himself on his forearms, no more than a few inches off the mat.

_Ten._

Knockout. 

The bell rang, and it felt as if Strike was emerging from underwater. The cheering was at such a level that it felt like the roof would blow off, and Chris grabbed his wrist, raising it in the air and yelling triumphantly in his ear. 

Strike’s boxing students come up on to the mat, jumping around him, cuffing him on the shoulders and herding him to the corner. He removed his gloves and took out his guard, swishing blessedly cool water into his mouth. 

Adrenaline was keeping the pain at bay; he was taking stock of his injuries with mild disconnection. He knew his face had taken a beating; he could feel the split skin stinging the bridge of his nose. Searing pain was spidering along his ribs with every breath; his right side had been really pummeled.

“Coach!” 

The muddled voices around him were materializing into coherent words.

“Coach, that was bloody amazing! I thought you were a goner, but you turned around and ripped him to shreds!”

Strike grinned and let them crowd around, returning high-fives and and nodding along to their frenzied, verbal replays of their favourite moments as his eyes searched the crowd. He looked for a flash of telltale red gold hair, but he couldn’t spot anything.

Rhys had been pulled to his feet, blood streaming from his nose. The referee was talking, pushing them towards each other. Rhys fumbled something resembling a handshake, unable to look him in the eyes, and Strike watched him turn and make his way to the ropes. He’d let Rhys go for now. 

He had more pressing matters to attend to.

He made his way to the edge of the mat. He needed to shower, make himself somewhat presentable, and find the one person in the world that he wanted to see most.

____________

 

Clean and dressed, Strike walked through the crowded gym. He had spotted Robin, and he made his way in her direction, his pulse hammering harder than it had all night. The cavernous space had turned into a dance; most of the teenagers had lost their inhibition and were writhing against each other. The pounding music was awful and relentless. Every other second, he was stopped by another student or parent or sponsor to shake hands with, and his taped fingers were already eliciting tremors of pain.

He hated all of it.

But he loved her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Clinch: A term used to describe when two fighters grab onto or hold each other to prevent an exchange or to slow the action. One fighter may also use this tactic when he is hurt, to prevent absorbing additional punishment.
> 
> Almost there. The next chapter is titled "The Main Event." :D @Blue_Robin - you're up!


	11. The Main Event

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the fight comes the night's toughest challenge: Strike and Robin must face their own past, and feelings for each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Main Event: the most recognizable or main fight on a card._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I can't say this without giving away the ending, but you knew how it was going to end all along, right? :) This is the chapter that earns this fic its "E" rating. There's a lot of other stuff going on as well, so if smut isn't your thing, read up until they leave gym. There's a break divided by a line, and then Blue_Robin gets her birthday present :D and then another break. It's not necessary to the actual plot, so you won't miss anything if you skip it. :)

Robin excused herself from the woman she was speaking with and watched Strike making his slow way towards her. He was heading through the crowd, not breaking eye contact with her as people slapped him on the back and grasped his hand. 

When he finally reached her, he touched her elbow lightly, giving her a tiny smile. It was so incongruous with the fierce boxer in the ring, so different from his expression as he threw punch after punch, that Robin felt a lump in her throat. That sweet, gentlemanly smile: this was more him than any other expression, this was the man she loved. 

His dark, buzzed hair was still in tiny wet spikes from his shower. He had thrown his suit jacket back on over a dress shirt but neglected the tie, and the chest hair she could see through his open collar was slightly damp. The skin around his left eye was already swollen and shadowed with the promise of bruising. A narrow white bandage was slapped across the bridge of his nose, and tiny red lines scored his temple and left cheekbone. He looked exhausted, rough, and frankly, a little alarming.

He offered that shy smile again, the corners of his eyes creasing in familiar playfulness, and Robin felt tears burning in her own. He could still do this, had always been able to; utterly overwhelm her.

The pounding music switched to a slow, romantic number. The crowd cheered and the mood of the room shifted into dreamy, romantic darkness. Robin felt as if they were the fixed point of a small universe: glittering, multicoloured lights twinkled down on the galaxy of couples, swaying together in the dark. She and Strike stood inches apart, standing on the precipice of everything they were to each other. Partners, lovers, friends: it was all mixed up into this careening, endless moment.

Stepping into his arms was easy; simply an echo of something she had done a hundred times before. Robin rested her face against the lapel of his suit, his body warm against hers. 

“Congratulations, Corm,” she said, the words muffled into his chest. Right above his heart.

Robin felt him take a breath, and she turned her face up to meet his lips as they captured hers in a soft kiss. It felt like coming home, it felt like stoking a dangerous fire, and it made her want to cry. 

They stopped, and she put her cheek back against his chest. He bent down and spoke into her hair.

“I’ve missed you, Ellacott. I missed this.”

There was no question what he meant. She drew back to look at him.

“That’s not enough, Cormoran.”

He nodded, serious eyes roaming her face.

“Yeah. I know.”

The tears that Robin had been keeping at bay threatened to spill over. 

“You said I broke your heart, when I ended it-” 

She gulped once, twice, around the horrible ache in her throat. “But you broke _mine_.”

He looked miserable.

“Christ, Robin-”

“You know it’s true. You just - you just stopped trying.” 

“Rob. Please. I-”

“Corm. Let me-”

He stopped himself, and nodded again. She took a deep breath, and a tear quietly escaped. She wiped it away with the heel of her hand.

“We’ll just go in circles, you and I. We’ll make promises and everything will be fine until you withdraw again, and shut me out, and I’ll get resentful and frustrated, and leave.”

Strike was watching her with bleak understanding. 

“I know.”

Without speaking, she laid her head back down on his suit. She felt him kiss the top of her head, then heard his voice.

“Robin.”

Two teens danced close by, and Robin watched them with surprise; she had almost forgotten where they were. Strike continued.

“I won’t lie. I hate that you’ll be sacrificing things you might want, things you could easily have, just to be with me. I worry that you won’t want me - that I’m - that I’m not enough.”

It was the first time she had heard him ever admit those things out loud. It was something that had stood between them for years, like an invisible barrier, and as he voiced them there was a subtle shift; the wall came down. She felt him exhale, her hair fluttering at the edges of her vision. He went on, low and fierce.

“Tell me what you want, and whatever you say, I’ll believe you.” 

_What she wanted._

Sunlit possibilities flashed through her mind, as they had hundreds, thousands of times. A little girl with golden hair and eyes that crinkled like her father’s. A lanky teenager, standing beside his dad in the boxing ring. Tiny, chubby baby fists and her mom becoming a grandmother and school plays and Christmasses and Easter egg hunts. Pancake breakfasts and family hugs and group laughter around a dinner table. A husband who jogged alongside her on frosty morning runs, who was young and goofy and who made egg-white omelettes and who came home at five o’ clock and who put the kids to bed.

She knew what a life with Cormoran meant. She knew it didn’t look like that.

Robin looked up, right into his eyes, seeing the utter vulnerability in them.

“I want to spend mornings waking up in your arms and eating takeout dinners late at night. I want cases that go on for weeks and months that drive us crazy as we try and solve them. I want to make the agency the best in London. I want late nights and a strange schedule and rumpled, messy sex while on surveillance.”

He chuckled, looking down at his feet for a moment. Then he lifted his head again, his eyes red-rimmed, every line in his beat-up face etched painfully with hope. Tears were streaming freely down her cheeks.

“I want to celebrate birthdays and holidays with your nephews and my family and our friends.”

His arms were so tight around her it was making her breathless.

“I want all of that,” she clarified, sniffing, “but more than anything, I want _you_ , Cormoran.”

Her heart was breaking, but it was soaring, too. She smiled up at him, willing him to understand. A muscle jumped in his jaw, his eyes not leaving hers. 

“Are you -” 

His voice broke. He cleared his throat, shaking his head slightly. His hands came up and framed her cheeks. She could feel the rough medical tape on his knuckles, fraying already and tickling her skin. He brushed away her escaping tears with gentle thumbs.

“Are you sure you want-”

She nodded and then said with absolute conviction,

“I’m sure.”

Strike made a strangled sound in his throat and leaned down. His lips touched hers, and it felt less like a kiss and more like a promise.

“I want _you_ ,” she repeated, and he kissed her again, this time less gently, this time with her mouth opening to his, their tongues barely meeting; a suggestion.

“I want you,” she said again, her hands traveling up and brushing against the bristles on his scalp.

“I want you,” she whispered, and the meaning was changing along with their kisses; they were increasing in length and intensity. He was kissing away the streaks of tears on her cheeks, they were laughing into each other’s mouths, he was pressing her against him, their tongues stroking deeply, making her light-headed with happiness and need.

She wanted him so badly she could taste it. Their tangled feelings over the past few months had finally reached a breaking point, desire building so fast it felt like it would consume her. She wanted to trace her tongue across every cut; she wanted to run her hands all over his powerful, beat-up body and make him moan.

His large hand moved lower, cupping her bottom and lifting her slightly, and she let out a breathless laugh as she ran her hands lightly down his chest. She whispered playfully into his ear.

“Shall we test your new levels of endurance?”

He huffed a laugh, but it was laced with unmistakeable desire, and when he looked at her, it was with pupils blown wide with sheer lust. She kissed him again, and it was endless, they lost themselves in each other. She was aware, on some level, of youthful whooping around them, but it only fueled the vast, unconquerable happiness rising up from her toes. It was a slow, thorough, meandering kiss; they were reminding each other, wordlessly, of a part of their relationship that had always worked. They slowed to a reluctant stop. Robin kept her eyes closed, unwilling to break the moment. 

Finally, she opened them, and Strike raised an eyebrow.

“Right.”

He grabbed her hand in his and began leading them through the crowd, smiling and nodding at parents and teenagers who were clapping him on the back and offering him congratulations. He looked over his shoulder, grinning at her, tugging her to the gym doors and out into the night.

________________________________________________________________

Robin bit her lip, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“We’re here, finally,” she said. Tentatively.

“Longest fucking cab ride of my life,” he joked.

They were both nervously standing outside the front door of her flat. The momentum of their giddy, desperate kisses in the cab had been brought up short by the reality of Robin’s front door. 

“It’s been awhile since…” Robin trailed off, not sure what she referred to. Since he’d been to her place? Since she’d been with anyone? Since they had been a couple?

“It has,” agreed Strike. 

“And yet-” he tilted his head, grinning. “I remember how this goes.”

Just like her, he could have been referring to anything, but then he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. A car flashed past on the road; she could see tiny red spots seeping through the bandage on the bridge of his nose.

“I remember how _we_ go,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. She let out a muffled sob of laughter, and the dam was broken. 

Robin dug her key out and unlocked the door, and they barely made it through before they were kissing each other with starved desperation. Strike was half lifting her as they pulled each other along, shaking off his jacket and throwing it to the floor. He was steering her backwards through her tiny kitchen and sitting area, taking them both to her bedroom. 

He wasn’t holding anything back; his tongue was slow at the same time that his hands were everywhere, his touch burning through her clothes, sparking her skin to life. She flipped a switch on the wall as they came into her room, throwing them both into the rosy glow of soft lamplight.

He unzipped her dress, and she felt the slight brush of tape on her spine. She shivered and returned the favour, untucking his shirt and undoing the buttons. She pushed it off his shoulders, and he stood, looking down at her as she let her hands roam gently up his body. He sucked in a breath, teeth clenched. 

Robin smiled; there was a heaviness and solidity to him that all the training in the world couldn't sculpt away. She teased light circles with her fingers across his chest and through the dark hair, marveling at the unfamiliar sensation of hard muscle.

“You took a bit of heat up there, in the ring tonight,” she said, her fingers brushing carefully across red patches of swollen skin.

His eyes didn’t leave hers as he stroked slowly down her bare arms, sliding her dress down at the same time. It shimmered, quicksilver, before pooling at her feet on the floor. 

He looked at her, eyes shining, and she lifted her chin, letting him take her in.

“And then you turned the tables.”

This statement was greeted with an adorably smug smile. 

“Yeah.”

His arms came up and he turned her quickly to face the other direction, pulling her body flush to his. He moved her hair to one side and pressed hot kisses to her neck. One hand was splayed at her waist, keeping her there, and one hand was teasing at the front of her panties. 

She groaned, throwing her head back against his chest, moving her backside against his erection. 

“Fucking Christ,” he bit out, his breath on her neck raising goosebumps down her spine, his hips rotating along with hers. 

Robin was panting, writhing her body. “I want to feel you, I want you inside me-”

He moaned into her neck. She was burning up, drunk with feverish need, and if his fingers kept going-

She reached one hand up and grabbed his jaw, turning his face to hers. He kissed her, speeding up his thumb, and she came in a quick, dazzling burst of pleasure. He held her against him, letting her ride it out, swallowing her moans deep into his mouth. 

They broke apart, and she turned to face him, slumping in his arms, boneless and dizzy with satisfaction. She could feel him, every muscle tense, his cock hard and straining. She was wet, sated, and desperate for more. She moved against him, relishing the way he grunted, reveling in the cords standing out on his neck.

He gave her a sudden, wicked grin. 

“Didn’t you want to test my endurance?”

She let herself fall backwards onto the bed, reaching over to her bedside drawer and grabbing a small foil packet. He crawled up, kissing his way along her body until he was braced over her. She leaned back on her upper arms, grabbed hastily for his belt, undoing it and tugging his pants and boxers down as he kissed the top of her breasts. She palmed his cock, sliding on the condom and loving the gutted sound he made, his head hanging forward, his chest heaving a shuddering breath as her hands stroked him. He recovered, sliding one hand up her back, undoing the clasp on her bra and freeing it, tossing to one side. 

He was massaging a breast in his hand, and she lay back down, thrusting herself eagerly into his hand. He bent down, taking a nipple between his teeth, and she whined, desperate enough not to care what sounds she made.

She squirmed out of her panties, and he paused at her entrance, stilling for a moment. She noted, with a bit of feminine delight, that he no longer trembled holding himself up over her. She caressed a shameless hand down the muscles of his arm, and he grinned, lopsided around his swollen upper lip.

She snorted. 

“Don’t get too full of yourself,” she giggled, but was cut short as he entered her with a swift stroke, and she tossed her head to the side, her mouth falling open. 

A flush crept up her neck and cheeks, the sensation of him inside her both familiar and too much, all at once. He began to move, and she closed her mouth, throwing her head back and arching up to meet him.

They were moving together, skin slick with sweat. Robin made a desperate, animal sound, and raised her leg, he caught it and hooked an arm underneath her knee, angling himself and moving deeper. 

He swore again, and now her hands were tangled in his hair, now they were scraping down his back, now she was pushing a finger into his eager mouth. He was too much, he was everywhere, filling every sense she had, he was thrusting into her deep and steady and she never wanted it to end. 

Robin’s breath was coming fast, she was making short, keening noises, feeling herself close to coming again. Strike was looking down at her, his own breath short, gutteral noises as he thrust faster. 

She came in a storm of pleasure, her body a tidal wave of rapture. She was vaguely aware of Strike following her, felt him thrusting unevenly and then collapsing, heavy and awkwardly, on her duvet, his arms still keeping his weight off her. She smiled into his warm skin, and they both drifted into peaceful complacency for a few moments. 

___________________________________________________________________________

Robin nudged him gently, and he moved onto his side. She twisted onto her own side, facing him. They were both out of breath. She reached a hand up to touch his cheek. The cut there had opened again.

“You’re bleeding.”

He kissed her palm.

“So what else is new.”

She laughed. 

“That must have hurt. We got rather carried away, and you just came from a boxing match.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“If that’s what I get at the end of a boxing match, point me to the nearest ring.”

She laughed again. 

“If that’s what _I_ get at the end of a boxing match, I’ll take you there myself.”

He brought up a hand, placing it over hers. His eye was almost swollen shut. Robin winced.

“All right. That’s enough. I’m getting you some ice.”

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and grabbed a pair of pj pants, shimmying into them and heading for the kitchen. 

“Robin.”

She stopped, looking back. Strike was lying there, his tall frame too long for her bed, his large body sweaty, chest hair matted. The white bandage on his nose had turned completely red. He grinned his lopsided grin.

“I love you.”

She grinned back, grabbing a decorative pillow from the floor and tossing it gently at him.

"I know. You should get some rest while I get ice. You'll need it before round two, boxer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have loved writing this fic. Ever since reading in the actual books that Strike had a boxing past, I wanted to put him back in the ring. I knew nothing about boxing, but something about that appealed to me. I also wanted to write a fic where he and Robin weren't tentatively approaching a relationship, but one where they _had_ dated, but it hadn't worked out. I think these two have a lot of things that could trip them up, and I wanted to have that all happen, but start them in a place where they had a second chance. 
> 
> It was a complicated premise, and I didn't make it easy on our favourite duo! I wasn't sure how it would fly, but every kudos and wonderful, enthusiastic, lovely comment has made me so, so happy. I've re-read all of your comments many times, and it's kept me going. Thank you, thank you, from my heart.
> 
> ALSO: I have googled enough boxing terms and even watched enough clips of sparring and famous fights to last a lifetime. Boxing STILL isn't my thing - but I have a newfound respect for the people that do it. It's more a physical chess match, as blue_umbrella once said in a comment, than mindless slugging. And man, you gotta be tough. It's also quite a bit about reading your opponent: knowing their style, anticipating their moves, and reacting to them. I think that fits perfectly with Cormoran's skills. And Boxer!Strike is still, quite possibly, my favourite version. Mmmmmph. :D
> 
> Also, so what happens with Rhys? What's the deal with Sean? For those who are interested, there's a short epilogue to tie up the case. It made this chapter too long and didn't fit, so it's been relegated to the end. Lol!

**Author's Note:**

> A huge and grateful hug of thanks goes to LulaisaKitten for the advice on this one: it had been formed long, long ago but was missing a piece of the puzzle. I swung an idea towards her and she bounced it back with clarity! 
> 
> Also, a shout-out to a bunch of us who like our Strike roughed-up. I'm looking at you, under_my_blue_umbrella, NotMantheLessbutNatureMore, Lula and Hobbes!
> 
> One last one: a future chapter is dedicated to RoseNoble9, for an early birthday present. ;)


End file.
